well-known for both accepting and winning garish tabloid murder cases, and when Doug described to himHobie's situation, he agreed to take it, even though it meant cutting his vacation short. Stevens' fees were so astronomical as to be unbelievable, but Doug was assured by a school-district representative that Hobie'sinsurance would cover the cost.
'You know,' the lawyer drawled as they drove over to the police station in a huge white Lincoln, 'I've been having trouble with the mail myself this summer. I have tried several times to speak to the postmaster about this, but he never seems to be in when I call.'
Doug had debated whether or not to tell Stevens all, and he had decided it would be better forHobie if he did not. At least not yet. He didn't want the lawyer to think both of them were nuts, and if Stevens discovered during his research what was really going on here, well, then they'd have another ally on their side. If he discovered nothing, Doug could always fill him in on the details later. 'I've had trouble too,' Doug admitted.
'If, as I believe, this is atownwide problem, we may be able to work this to our advantage.'
Doug smiled. 'Let's hope so.'
The lawyer looked at him. 'Do you think your Mend's guilty? Tell me the truth. We're covered here by lawyer-client privilege, and it will never go further than this.'
Doug was surprised by the forthrightness of the question. 'He's innocent,'
he said.
'That's what I like to hear.'
'What do you think?'
Stevens 'chuckled, a low mellifluous comforting sound. 'I'll make my decision once I talk to my client.'
At the police station, they were searched, then led into a small room empty save for three chairs and a table, all bolted to the floor.Hobie was brought in, handcuffed, and remained silent until his guard left the room. He looked even worse, even crazier, than he had last night, and Doug had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd been hopingHobie would make a good impression on the lawyer.
'Okay,' Doug said. 'Now we can talk.'
Hobieglanced furtively around. He looked under the table, felt under the chair, as if searching for electronic listening devices. Under other circumstances, the paranoia ofHobie's reaction would have been funny. But nothing seemed funny anymore.
'There're no bugs,' Doug said. 'Our police department can't afford any.'
'And even if there were,' Stevens said, 'evidence gathered through their use would not be admissible in court.'
'This is your lawyer,' Doug said. 'Yard Stevens.'
The lawyer held out a thick pink hand. 'How do you do?'
'How do you think? I'm in jail for murder.'
'Did you do it?'
'Hell, no.'
Doug felt a little better.Hobie still looked awful, but the shocked incoherence of last night and the dissolution of the past few weeks seemed to have disappeared. He seemed more confident now, closer to his normally abrasive self.
'Doug?' Stevens turned toward him. 'I would like to speak to my client alone from here on. I may need your testimony in court, and I don't want to jeopardize its validity by allowing you access to privileged information.'
Doug nodded. 'Okay. I'll be waiting right outside.'
'Fine.'
'Thanks,'Hobie said.
'I'll be by to see you later.' Doug knocked on the closed door and it was opened from the outside. He was walking down the hall toward the front office when he heard a familiar voice behind him. 'Mr.Albin ? Can I talk to you for a moment?'
He turned to see Mike Trenton beckoning him from the doorway of an office.
'Doug. I thought I told you to call me Doug.'
'Doug?'
He followed Mike into a small room dominated by a huge desk. Two walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with textbooks and bound case studies. 'This used to be the police library,' Mike explained, noticing his glance. 'Well, it still is, but now it doubles as my office.'
'What did you want to talk to me about?'
'Mr. Beecham.'
'I thought you were off all mailman cases.'
Mike shrugged. 'It's a small department. A lot's been happening. We're shorthanded. Besides, this is not a 'mailman case.' '
'It is too, and you know it.'
'I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Mr. Beecham.'
Doug began pacing up and down the length of the tiny crowded room. 'Come on, Mike. You know damn well thatHobie didn't kill that girl.'
'I know no such thing. I'd like to help you, I really would, but Mr.
Beecham's fingerprints -- bloody fingerprints, I might add -- were found all over the murder weapon and all over the room. And those photos on the wall . .
.' He shook his head. 'They're not proof of anything, but they're certainly a sign of a sick mind --'
'Those photos were sent to him by his brother.'
'His dead brother?'
'What's the matter with you, Mike? What's happened? A week ago you had an open mind about this, now you're just . . .' He groped for the right word.
'Facing the facts,' the policeman finished for him.
'Hiding,' Doug said. 'Grasping at any answer that fits into your police logic, that can be easilycatagorized and catalogued and filed away and forgotten. I know you're scared. Hell, we're all scared. But you're looking for reassurance, and you're not going to find it. You want to believe that we're crazy, that none of this is happening, that life is going to go on as normal.
But it's not going to go on as normal. People are dying here, Mike. You might not want to admit it, but everyone knows it. I know it, you know it, everyone in town knows it. People are dying because of the fucking mailman. Call it supernatural, call it whatever you want, but it's real, it's happening.'
'His prints were on the weapon,' Mike repeated tiredly.
'Be serious with me, Mike. Level with me. Don't hand me that official line crap. Be straight with me.'
'It's an open-and-shut case --'
'Come on. I'm not your enemy here, Mike. Jesus, if we all just spent a little more time working together and a little less time trying to keep all of our goddamn roles so virginal and separate, we'd get a hell of a lot more done.'
The policeman smiled slightly. 'You were always a good talker. That's why you were one of my favorite teachers.'
'I'm not just talking here.'
'As far as I'm concerned, you are. We have proof, Mr.Albin . His prints are on the weapon. Blood was found under his fingernails, on his clothing, in his hair.'
Doug opened the door. 'Fine,' he said, pointing an accusing finger at the young policeman. 'Toe the party line, hide your head in the goddamn sand. But the next one's on your head. You could've done something about it. You want to talk to me aboutHobie ? Get yourself a subpoena.' He slammed the door behind him, strode through and out of the police office, and stood in the open air, breathing deeply, trying to calm down. The warm morning air filled his lungs, tasting clean and fresh and good, reminding him of happier, far more different summers. His eyes scanned the small parking lot and found the shiny metal mailbox standing on a post at the juncture of the parking lot and the road, next to the low ranch fence. Sunlight glinted off the box's curved top.
He hated those aluminum pieces of shit.
He waited for Stevens by the car.
38
